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When our sea-walled garden, the whole land,,
Is full of weeds; her fairest flowers chok'd up,
Her fruit-trees all unprun'd, her hedges ruin'd,
Her knots disorder'd, and her wholesome herbs
Swarming with caterpillars?

Gard. Hold thy peace: >

He that hath suffer'd this disorder'd spring,

Hath now himself met with the fall of leaf:

The weeds, that his broad-spreading leaves did shelter.

That seem'd, in eating him, to hold him up,

Are pluck'd up, root and all, by Bolingbroke;

I mean, the earl of Wiltshire, Bushy, Green.

1 Serv. What, are they dead?

Gard. They are; and Bolingbroke

Hath seiz'd the wasteful king.^-Oh! what pity is it,
That he had not so trimm'd and dress'd his land,
As we this garden! We at time of year
Do wound the bark, the skin of our fruit-trees;
Lest, being over-proud with sap and blood,
With too much riches it confound itself:
Had he done so to great and growing men,
They might have liv'd to bear, and he to taste
Their fruits of duty. All superfluous branches
We lop away, that bearing boughs may live:
Had he done so, himself had borne the crown,
Which waste of idle hours hath quite thrown down,

1 Ser. What, think you then, the king shall be depos'd?

Gard. Depress'd he is already; and depos'd, Tis doubt, he will be: Letters came last night

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To a dear friend of the good duke of York's,
That tell black tidings.

Queen. O, I am press'd to death,

Through want of speaking !—Thou, old Adam's like-
ness, [Comingfrom her concealment.
Set to dress this garden, how dares
Thy harsh-rude tongue sound this unpleasing news?
What Eve, what serpent hath suggested thee
To make a second fall of cursed man?
Why dost I h< iu say, king Richard is depos'd?
Dar'st th'ou, thou link: better thing than earth,
Divine his downfaj? Say, where, when, and how,
Cam'st thou by these ill tidings? speak, thou wretch.

Card. Pardon me, madam: little joy have I,
To breathe this news; yet, what I say, is true.
King Richard, he is in the mighty hold
Of Bolingbroke; their fortunes both are weigh'd:
In your lord's scale is nothing but himself,
And some few vanities that make him light;
But in the balance of great Bolingbroke,
Besides himself, are all the English peers,
And with that odds he weighs king Richard down.
Post you to London, and you'll find it so;
I speak no more than every one doth know.

Queen. Nimble mischance, that art so light of foot, Doth not thy embassage belong to me, And am I last that knows it? O, thou think'st To serve me last, that I may longest keep Thy sorrow in my breast.—Come, ladies, go. To meet at London London's king in woe.—*

VOL. VI. B 11

What, was I born to this! that my sad look
Should grace the triumph of great Bolingbroke ?—
Gardner, for telling me this Dew's of woe,
I would, the plants thou graft'st, may never grow w.
[i'.riinit Quern and Ladies.
Gard. Poor queen! so that thy state might be no


I would my skill were subject to thy curse.—
Here did she drop a tear; here, in this place,
I'll set a bank of rue, sour herb of grace:
Rue, even for ruth, here shortly shall be seen,
In the remembrance of a weeping queen. [ Exeunt.

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